


You Love Them, You Do, But Here's The Thing: You Are Not Allowed To Keep Them

by theandrogynousdragon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Bisexual Merlin (Merlin), Blood and Injury, Boys Kissing, Canonical Character Death, Depression, Dissociation, F/M, Hurt Merlin (Merlin), Immortality, Kissing, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, POV Second Person, Polyamory, Prophecy, Self-Esteem Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Survivor Guilt, bad things happen, but make it sad, kind of a happy ending?, lots of smooches, prophecies are not fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:55:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28118802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theandrogynousdragon/pseuds/theandrogynousdragon
Summary: You love them, you do. You love them, but here's the tragedy: you are not allowed to save them. You love them fiercely, desperately, with all of yourself. You love them, you do. You cannot help it. It is not enough, in the end.
Relationships: Daegal & Merlin (Merlin), Elyan/Merlin (Merlin), Freya/Merlin (Merlin), Gwaine/Merlin (Merlin), Lancelot/Merlin (Merlin), Leon/Merlin (Merlin), Merlin/Percival (Merlin), Merlin/Will (Merlin), One-Sided Merlin/Morgana, Vaguely One-Sided Gwen/Merlin
Comments: 14
Kudos: 39





	You Love Them, You Do, But Here's The Thing: You Are Not Allowed To Keep Them

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for depression and suicidal thoughts/attempts.

* * *

* * *

The thing is this: prophecies are as vicious as the gods they come from. The thing is this: when you first hear about the prophecy clinging to your skin, you think, “oh, well, alright then. I can manage that.” (This is your first mistake.) When you first hear about the prophecy, you are eighteen and terrified and _so_ , so _angry_.

* * *

You have never killed a person before. In the moment, all you can think of is stopping a murder. Afterwards, you feel _sick_. You feel _monstrous_. You feel like you are looking at yourself from the outside, miles and miles up. (There is blood on your hands now.) You are still eighteen. You are still terrified. Your anger feels _different_.

* * *

You are eighteen and three weeks old and you cannot breathe. There is poison in the wine and you drink it because of course you do. They think you brave, or foolish, or loyal. And you are all of those things, certainly, because you are eighteen and three weeks old. That is not why you raise the shining silver cup to your lips. You are eighteen and three weeks old and you don't want to _burn_. (She kisses you, when you wake, and you like it well enough. _Your mouth is numb._ You know you could have this, have _her_ , if you wanted, but. But you look at the bright golden thread of prophecy, of fate, coiling around her head like a crown, and you _know_. There are things you are not allowed to want.)

* * *

You are eighteen and four months old and there is a man and he _knows_. There is a man and he knows and he is not afraid. You kiss him goodbye, because it feels like something you should do, because you want him to come back, because you are eighteen and four months old and you _want_.

* * *

You are nineteen and six days old and your very first friend in the whole world is dying. He dies with a lie on his lips for you. He dies _afraid_. He dies begging you _please, Merlin. Merlin, I'm scared_. You kiss him goodbye, because he deserves that much, because you love him still (for all it's worth now), because it feels right. There is blood on both your mouths and you _shake_. You feel like screaming. You care nothing for prophecy right now. There is blood on your hands that you know will never come off. You are nineteen and six days old and your very first friend in the whole world is _gone_ , and you are not allowed to mourn him.

* * *

You are nineteen and five months and you are told, “find a man to play our knight”.

“From now on,” you say, grinning just a little, “you are Sir William of Deira.” You may not be allowed to mourn your first friend, but you can _remember_ him, and you will take what you are given with both grasping, shaking hands.

* * *

You are nineteen and seven months old and The Man Who Knows comes back. He doesn't _stay_ , though. You trace your lip with your fingernail and wonder what would happen if you kissed him again.  
“I will not come between them,” he says, and you wonder what would happen. _I love you_ , you cannot bring yourself to say. _**I**_ _love you, what of that, Lancelot of Gwynedd?_ You cannot bear the thought that your love might cause this man to die for you.

* * *

You are nineteen and ten months old and there is a girl and you love her. You cannot help it. You love easy and deep and absolutely. You are nineteen and ten months old and you are so very alone. You are nineteen and ten months old and loving this girl feels a little like penance, a little like absolution, a little like prayer. Loving this girl feels a little _holy_ , somehow, a little _other_. You _want_. You kiss her and you _want_ , so badly you feel like bursting with it, but that's the thing, isn't it? There are some things you are just not allowed to want. You are nineteen and ten months old and there is a girl and you love her. There is a girl and you love her and you are not allowed to keep her. You kiss her goodbye. It is all you can do, in this moment.

* * *

You are nineteen and eleven months old and there is hemlock in your hands. You feel ill, but you give it to your friend anyway. You are nineteen and eleven months old and you do not want to do this. You do not kiss her goodbye, because you know it would be unwanted. You are nineteen and eleven months old and there is hemlock in your hands, and you drink it because you know you deserve it. (It doesn't work. You will have to find another way.) 

* * *

You are nineteen and eleven months old and there is a man who is your father. There is a man who is your father and you love him fiercely. How could you not? He is your father, after all, even if he is nothing like you thought he would be. There is a man who is your father and he is jumping in front of a blade for you and you are _screaming_. You touch him with shaking hands, thinking, wildly, _it wasn't supposed to be like this. This wasn't supposed to happen_. But it does, it has, and you watch the life leave your father's eyes. You kiss his forehead, pressing a _goodbye, Father, I'm sorry_ into his quickly cooling skin. There is (here lies) a man (Balinor of the House of Lailoken) who was your father, and you are not allowed to mourn him, either. You are beginning to think a curse lies beneath your skin, tangled with the prophecy the dragon spoke of. (The prophecy and the curse are one and the same, but you don't know that yet.)

* * *

You are twenty-one and four days old and your friend comes back. Your friend comes back, and you hope, because you love her, because you are foolish, because you are twenty-one and you crave forgiveness like a drowning man craves the open skies and firm earth beneath his feet. You are twenty-one and four days old and your friend comes back and she hates you, but it doesn't upset you very much, all told. You deserve it, you know. (It still hurts, a little.)

* * *

You are twenty-one and one month old and you meet someone new. A wanderer, a rogue, a good man. You know he will not stay; that is not his nature. You kiss him goodbye when he leaves and it doesn't feel so much like a goodbye as a _promise_.

* * *

You are twenty-one and six months old when you meet Gwen's brother for the first time. He is a bit of a troublemaker, and you love him. You can't help it. You kiss him, and this time you don't have to say goodbye. You kiss him a touch too hard sometimes, but Elyan doesn't mind. Life is short, and he knows the risks. He does not begrudge you trying to press the feel of his skin into your bones. (He doesn't begrudge you loving other people, either, which is good of him.)

* * *

You are twenty-one and seven months old and the castle is under siege. You are twenty-one and seven months old and Lancelot and Gwaine come back. They come back, and Lancelot brings a friend. They come back, and Arthur knights them, and you are so happy you feel like nothing could be better than this moment. You kiss Elyan because you are so happy. You kiss Gwaine because he deserves it. You kiss Lancelot because you have missed him. You kiss Percival because you want to, because he needs someone to care about him. You kiss Leon because you worried you'd never see him again.

* * *

You are twenty-three years old exactly and Lancelot dies for you with a smile on his lips. You scream at him, at the place where he was standing a moment ago and now Is Not. You do not get to say goodbye.

* * *

You are twenty-three years old and you decide not to tell anyone about your magic ever again. Everyone who knows has died aside from Gaius and your mother. Maybe, if you tell no one else, they will not die for you.

* * *

You are twenty-four and two weeks old and something is very wrong with your friends. You can taste the magic in the air, curling round them like smoke, but you don't do anything about it. They are angry and they hurt you and you _deserve_ it, you _do_ , you _know_ this.

* * *

You are twenty-five and Lancelot comes back but he is not himself. You try to save him but you can't, and he dies for a second time. You kiss him goodbye and try to pretend you don't wish you could follow him.

* * *

You are twenty-seven and three days old and Elyan dies with a smile on his lips. You never told him about the magic. You feel like you're drowning, and spend weeks after not quite inside your own head.

* * *

You are twenty-seven and nine months old and there is a boy who reminds you of someone you used to be. You have never had a little brother before. You think that you would like to. He dies making a joke. He dies, and you are so angry. He was seventeen and terrified, and you could not save him. You think about poison, you think about knives, you think about blood.

* * *

You are twenty-eight and twelve days old and you don't know that Gwaine is dead until you see the sheet covering him when you return to Camelot. You are tired, more than anything else.

* * *

You are twenty-nine and insist on burying your adopted father alone.

* * *

You are thirty, and you bury your mother.

* * *

You are thirty-five, and you don't look it. You are thirty-five, and Percival is dying, blood on his mouth, on his bright mail, on the hungry dark earth. You kiss him, one last time, blood on both your mouths, on both your hands.

* * *

You are forty-seven, and you still don't look it. You kiss Gwen's hands and fold them neatly over her chest, brushing back her dark hair streaked gray. Tears drip down your cheeks as you whisper, “the queen is dead.”

* * *

You are fifty-eight, and Leon looks no older than thirty. You kiss him goodbye and know you will not return to this castle again. There are too many ghosts in these walls.

* * *

You are fifteen hundred and twenty-eight years old and you are terrified. You are fifteen hundred years old and they Came Back. They _came back_ , they _did_ , all of them, Will and Freya and Balinor and Gaius and Hunith and Mordred and Daegal and Morgana and Gwen and Percival and Elyan and Gwaine and Arthur and Leon. They came back and you are _terrified_. You are so afraid of loving them, afraid of what might happen now. You steal Arthur's sword because it can kill even the undying. Your hands shake, but you swing it, all the same. Someone is screaming but it isn't you. You don't mind dying, but you still don't want to burn, and you beg forgiveness with blood on your teeth, bubbling up from your throat.

* * *

You are fifteen hundred and twenty-eight years old and they do not let you die. You think, if your mind was properly inside your body and not somewhere outside and miles and miles up, you might be angry about it. You are monstrous, after all. It is only fitting that you be slain like the mad thing you are.

* * *

You are fifteen hundred and twenty-nine years old and you understand that something in you is broken, irreparable, shattered beyond all hope. You love them, anyway, because that is who you are. You love them, fiercely, desperately, with as much of yourself that remembers how to love.

* * *

You are fifteen hundred and thirty years old, and you are finally, finally allowed to keep them. You kiss them, one by one by one, in different ways with different types of love, and for once you do not have to say goodbye.

* * *

* * *


End file.
